


Indigo Children

by akaya



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Future Fic, Gen, It's a sad world that we live in, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaya/pseuds/akaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You should've known and it's Cobb's fucking funeral and you feel as if he's been dead for at least a decade and what are you even doing here?!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo Children

_  
If Mal had anything to say on the matter she'd say..._

 _If she could say anything to anyone other than him she'd say..._

“You look devastatingly handsome, Arthur,” murmurs Eames as he sits next to you with a pained groan. He faces the front of the church, his white cane folded and ready next to his left hand, just in case it's needed. _Yes_ , you think. _Mal would have said that._

  
“What is it to you, Mr. Eames,” you smirk, not even trying to hide your condescending tone, but all you get is a low chuckle and slight turn of his face. Those cheap, plastic frames are covering his eyes and you scowl at them vehemently, hating them more with each second. It's your first time seeing him in years, but it doesn't stop you from wanting to step on his glasses with your custom made leather shoes and hear them crunch under your heel. You're almost sure they would make the same noise as broken bones.

  
“I always enjoyed well dressed company,” he says after a moment, and you snort in a very undignified manner. In the back of your head you realize it's not the time nor place for this kind of behaviour and before you know it, you're being glared at by a bunch of people that you'd never seen in your life before, and who have no idea who you are, and - - _And this whole thing is such a bullshit_ , because you should be wiser. You should've known and it's Cobb's fucking funeral and you feel as if he's been dead for at least a decade and _what are you even doing her_ _e?!_

  
“Fuck it,” you mutter and stand up. It had been a mistake to come here. It's not your life, not your people, those are normal, average people. You don't belong here. “You coming?” You ask exasperated and Eames grins crookedly, pocketing his cane and grabbing your elbow, trusting you to guide him.

Your name is Arthur Callahan. You're forty seven and there are first streaks of grey in you hair and Eames' hand is warm when he touches you.

+

You sit down and wait for your order, looking at him you say, “You've gained some weight.” He did, the sharp angles of his body and muscles softened with age and you take in how he looks now, calculating and taking mental notes, ever the point man. He's obviously aware what you're doing. It's in the twitch of his lips and the way he lets his hands - - _still strong, dangerous_ \- - stay still, unmoving on the table between the two of you. His hair long enough to pull into a small ponytail at the back of his neck. He's clean shaved, which surprises you, but when you look closer you see that - - ”And you missed a spot,” you say touching the side of his jaw with your fingers, feeling the short stubble there. Eames doesn't move.

  
 “So, Arthur,” he says after a moment and you move your hand away, remembering you're an adult and this is Eames sitting in front of you, who is not your friend, not even a colleague. “Starbucks, really?”

 

“Would you prefer McDonald?” You ask and see his eyebrows moving almost to his hairline, but you still can't see his eyes and there is this disgusting feeling in your mouth.

 

“Fine, be like that, Mr. stick-in-the-mud,” Eames chuckles, but his fingers are moving on the tabletop, discretely checking the space around him. It hits you that it's probably a new place for him and it's not exactly easy in the condition he's in and perhaps you should pity him, or at least show a bit of compassion, but then you're not much of an actor. “Should I ask how are you? It's been a while.”

  
“I'm fine, Mr. Eames,” you sigh and rub at the wrinkle in-between your eyes that is permanently etched into your face. You are tired and this place is loud and crowdy and what's with the shitty music - - You regret coming here.

  
“Just fine, darling?” He asks, sounding genuinely interested and you try to remember the last job he'd taken a part in that you know about.

  
“Just fine, Mr. Eames,” you answer and stand up when your order is being called, putting Eames' Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino in front of him, practically pushing it into his palm and maybe it's you telling him _it's on me_ or _have a nice day_ , but now his expression has changed and would it be easier for him, _for you_ , if he could actually see how old you are and how much you've changed and _you're not young men anymore?_

+

It's been ages since you left the military.

  
It's been ages since the last time you were young and eager to take on the world - - naïvely thinking that you stood a chance.

  
It's been ages since you died and got to live again, leaving the shattered dreams and hopes behind, scattering them in all directions, making sure no one will touch them again and remind you - - Yes, remind you that you, as many others, before and after, used to be an average human being with the whole emotional ups and downs package.

  
Yes, you think. This business has always been ruthless towards your kind, but where many have failed you stood strong and accommodated enough to survive and be stronger, stronger.

 _Inception_ , you smirk into your half-empty wine glass and take another sip, looking through the documents scattered all around your hotel room - - you don't have your own place in New York nor anywhere else. It hardly bothers you these days. You don't need an anchor to keep you safe, to keep you sane.

  
You're too damn good to go insane. You're not Mal, who had been tricked by Dom out of love, or maybe out of selfishness, nor Dom himself, whose funeral you attended yesterday. The failure of an extractor, whom you used to believe in against your better judgement, again the gut feeling that had been telling you to step down, to leave the pathetic man alone, but you had to be greedy. Had to. Now you might laugh at this, if you cared enough to do so.

 _Inception. It was the beginning and the end._

The wine that you're drinking comes in a sleek, elegant bottle and it's the most expensive liquor on the hotel menu, but in truth it tastes like sweet water with rectified spirit. You drink it anyway and for some reason think of Anselm, your Point, whom you trained and raised in your image as you stepped into Cobb's shoes, only to shed them like a snake does to its skin.

  
Yes, you had erased and created yourself again. And Anselm with you as a shadow, in case of doubts if you even cast one. You'd taught him how to wear suits, how to move, the basic of research and how to make people think you know something they don't. He's not exactly what you would call a natural, but he's the next best thing. Just enough brains to pick up what's of most importance and unpretentious enough to manipulate and push where you want him.

 _Much less troublesome than Eames_ , you think and try to remember the last jobs the Forger had been on. You made it your business to know things, partially due to common sense - - you work only with the best and ratings tend to change - - but mostly, because you like to keep things clean and there is only that much amount of trust you can have for someone not to spill some unnecessary details.

  
 _Ah, the Barcelona job_ _. Two years ago_ , supplements your hazed mind, trying to remember the details, demanding specificity that you can't get at this point. It was a team of three, an easy job concentrating on an unfaithful husband, but it had escalated into a minor national crisis with humanitarian associates getting in the middle of things. Luckily, the job still proved to be a success. If the rumours going around are even a bit truthful, the outcome would be different if not for the brilliant Forger involved, no name mentioned, but the style is familiar enough for you to be sure.

  
“How petty of the world,” you murmur, heaving yourself from the floor with a groan. Your hip is aching from one of too many injuries that are not letting go, reminding you that you are, indeed, only a human being unable to stop the time. You're only forty seven, but in your area of work you might as well be hundred years old and ready for retirement. You just have to deal with it. “When it had almost written you out of the main plot before, Eames. Your very own prodigal son,” you chuckle, and stumble into the bathroom, ignoring the mirror reflection of a tired, but handsome face with a stray lock of white falling into it. You take a leak, already past reminiscence and on track with the current job you're working. You don't need superfluous data bustling around in your head.

+

  
An extractor collaborating with the English government.  
Betrayal.  
Five people killed, one almost lethally injured with a head trauma and broken bones.  
 _Eames_ , disappearing from the face of Earth for almost seven years, before having a great comeback, bearing a white cane with him.

  
 _Dreaming is about imagination, not eyes._

+

 “You're going to need a forger for this job,” Mal says and sits next to you on a battered leather coach, crunching some of your papers. She's wearing the same dress that she had on that night. That night when she'd committed suicide.

  
“Get away, Mal.”

  
“You know that I'm right,” she answers and touches your elbow.

  
“You're dead. You have no right to interfere,” you sigh and pretend that her touch doesn't feel real, that your hand doesn't ache to reach for your loaded die to check. _This is reality_ , you know it.

  
“Arthur. Why hadn't you stop me?” She asks. It's the same question that had echoed in your mind on the day of her funeral, many years ago. It makes you smile, but you hide it from her by taking a sip of the bitter coffee from the coffee shop downstairs.

  
“Why would I?” You ask, finally turning to look at her fully. She looks young, so much younger than you are at the moment and it makes a grimace crawl onto your face.

  
“Out of you two,” she chuckles and leans back in a careless sprawl. “I had always belied you to be the more level-headed one.”

  
“Mal,” you snort, standing up and rolling down your sleeves. Your gun is on the table, half covered in documentation and personal notes. “I'm not Cobb. Get out of my head.”

  
+

When you wake up from the test drive, your architect is still under, and Anselm is there, sitting next to the PASIV device, brows scrunched. _Something is wrong_ , you think and look up at him.

  
“You're too early,” he says with a slight accent, looking straight at you. “Why?”

  
“What was the Somnacin dose?”

  
“The usual, fifty milligrams,” he says and stands up to check on the architect. “If you're awake, why is he still under?” He asks, a note of curiosity slips into his voice. You don't know, but it would be unwise to mention it, so you make an excuse.

  
“I'm longer in this business than he is. My body is used to Somnacin, give me a bigger dose.”

  
“It's dangerous.”

  
“It's a living,” you smirk and lay back on the cot. It smells like old chocolate and cigarettes, reminding you that this place used to be a chocolate factory once. According to your data it went bankrupt after the market crash, years ago. _All the better for you_. It's cheap and well maintained, and you have corrupted police officers to keep homeless and free-loaders at bay. “Let's to this again.”

When you resurface again, Anselm is nowhere to be seen, but you can hear a quiet murmur of a conversation in one of the back rooms. You unplug the wire from your wrist and finger the small scars from the years of poking your veins with needles. You hide them under your watch and long sleeves, but you can sometimes feel the pitying stare of people in public bathrooms when they catch the sight of them.

  
“We're going to need a forger,” says Anselm when he walks back into the room, catching you off-guard.

  
“I've never worked with one,” admits your architect and you realize that he reminds you of Ariadne, when you first met her.

  
“It's sometimes necessary to have one,” Anselm answers and looks at you. “Any suggestions?”

  
 _Yes_ , you think. “No,” you lie “I rarely use them,” you add and there is at least a bit of truth to that and you wonder if Anselm can see through you. If he's as good as you were, as you are.

  
“I will research our best options and run them through you,” he says and you're not sure if you ought to be disappointed or not.

  
“Do that,” you say instead, allowing the conversation to move towards more important topics.

+

You dream of Eames. It surprises you. The natural dreaming state is strange, alien to your mind and it's just one of those things that are not expected to happen, until they simply do. You're not ready for this, not ready to be back in Starbucks with Eames' gaze drilling holes in your whole being. Except you know it's not really Eames, just a projection - - not him. It - - with two black holes instead of eyes. It's terrifying in a bad, b-grade horror film way and you ought to be amused. Ought to be. Desperately want to be amused, but your skin is crawling, itching and you can't stop yourself from scratching and pulling, needing to tear it apart and your projection of Eames - - _It's just that, just that_ , you keep telling yourself ignoring your bloodied fingers. - - looks at you, through you. Knowing something you don't.

  
“I'd never expect you to be so lost,” Eames says in the exact same manner as when he complimented you in the church.

“Arthur, darling. Stop fighting it so much.”

  
“I'm not fighting anything,” you gasp and with the rising hysteric , you realize that you're having a fucking panic attack and you can't wake up. _Wake up, wake up, wake up_ , you plead and laugh like a maniac, chocking on it, finding it hard to breath.

  
“Poor, poor little Arthur,” Eames, _not Eames, a projection of him_ , laughs and adds some sugar to its coffee. “It's been so long since you've been afraid that you forgot how it feels. It's so, so sad.”

  
“I'm not afraid,” you rasp, ignoring the clammy feeling of drying blood on your fists. “I don't have to be afraid - -”

  
“Ah, but you have to. How can you tell if you're alive otherwise? Don't you miss being a human, Arthur?”

+

 _I should remember something_ , you think when you wake up. _Because there is something I don't know_. What you know is that for some reason you slept on the sofa instead of the bed, even if you pay double to have the best mattress with Egyptian sheets. It's a luxury you like to indulge in, but you didn't this time.

  
“I need coffee,” you say to no one in particular and stumble into a small kitchenette, looking for the cleanest cup in the sink, rising it twice and deeming it acceptable enough to use again. Your coffee pack is almost empty and you make a note to buy more later, because the stuff from the coffee shop downstairs is crap and there is no way you will drink the instant shit from the vending machines next to the metro station. It doesn't even smell like coffee and the taste is atrocious, like drinking soap with milk. _Disgusting_ , you think and then your phone rings, and it takes you a few seconds before you find it, squashed between the sofa cushions. The ID is unknown, but there only a few people aware that this number even exist.

  
“Yes?” You answer, schooling your voice into a professional indifference.

  
“I've made a list of a few people, who would be suitable to work with us,” Anselm's voice is calm, collected and once again you think that he would make an exceptional radio career if you hadn't snagged him first, straight out of high-school. “Although my top choice seems to be a bit risky, according to the rumours going around he's not the easiest person to work with -” he continues, but you interrupt him.

  
“If you're lucky, he's still in the city,” you say, pouring hot water into your cup. Anselm is quiet on the other side, but you know he's listening, thinking, processing what you just said. You let him.

  
“Who?” He asks and you smile, knowing he wont' see it. It's a good question, a wise one.

  
“Eames, of course. Or were you talking about someone else?”

  
“No,” he says and sighs, but you know he's not annoyed. It's a game you like to play with him, testing and prodding him. “Of course not, should I call him or - -?”

  
“You're in charge of this operation,” you say after a moment, breathing in the smell of fresh coffee. “Play it well and he will agree.”

  
“Should I --” he starts saying and hesitates and the non-question hangs in the air between you.

  
“No. Don't mention my name, unless he asks you.”

  
“See you in a few hours then,” he says and disconnects the call, leaving you to listen to the heavy silence in your hotel room. You still feel like you should remember something.

+

Eames is the first person you see when you step into the main room in the old factory. Anselm is the first one to notice you, and gives you a nod over Eames' head. It's the Brit you turns in his chair and smiles at you cheekily, _showing off his janky teeth_ , that breaks the silence first.

  
“It would be nice if you said hello, Arthur,” the Brit says and turns around in his chair, grinning. “There aren't many people in the world with such impending walk.”

  
“I see you accepted the job.”

  
“Would you prefer if I didn't?” He asks, and you sense the double meaning, hidden behind his question and ponder about your answer for a bit, observing.

  
“You're still considered the best in this business.”

  
“Not much of an answer, what happened to the specifi-?”

  
“Specificity,” you growl. “It still stands if it's connected to your job.”

  
“Ah, so the stick is still there.”

  
“There are other forgers if you don't feel up to this,” you say coldly, daring him.

  
“And miss the joy of your company? Never.”

You don't know whether to laugh or snarl at him more, but it would be causing a scene and you like keeping private things private and this is - - you realize with a distaste - - getting as close to personal as you allow it to be. Thankfully your architect, _Cahn_ , chooses that exact moment walk in.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and critics are love. Also this thing is self-beta'd so pointing all the mistakes and typos is also appreciated.


End file.
